


Trust Love

by TheBirbiest



Category: RWBY
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Full-length story, Hurt/Comfort, I have decided to write my own, If you're not a fan of Oscar, Please bare with me, RWBY rewrite that dives deeper into characterizations, This probably isn't the fic for you, because I live in a world of denial and angst forever, relationships will be added as the story progresses - Freeform, the good tea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:20:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24996019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBirbiest/pseuds/TheBirbiest
Summary: Two years have gone by since the Fall of Beacon, leaving many survivors unable to move beyond their scars of such a horrific event.Yang, determined to live her life in misery and cave to the fears that ignite within her, chooses to stay behind as Ruby, desperate to cling to some fragments of hope, sets off on a journey to assist those in need. She's accompanied by Jaune, Ren, and Nora who wish to do what they can for the world that they chose to protect. Along the way, they meet and are accompanied by Ruby's uncle, Qrow, who tells them about the Tale of Ozpin and the Maidens. Of Salem and the secrets hidden away from the rest of the world. He tells them about Haven and Lionheart, encouraging them to seek out the academy and assess the situation.It's here that they find and meet Oscar, and are reunited with Professor Ozpin, Yang, Weiss, and, eventually, Blake.We start our journey at the beginning of Volume 6. After the events of Volume 5.The team prepares to make their way to Argus via train in hopes of corresponding with James Ironwood, and securing a direct route to Atlas.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	1. A Prelude

Air enters his lungs in a sharp, painful gasp.

Everything feels wrong. Foreign. Surreal.

Where was he? _Who_ was he?

Another gasp; sharper than the last. 

He coughs violently.

His senses return to him _powerfully._ The smell of copper is thick, overwhelming him immediately. He hears a fire raging somewhere far off (or was it close?) and feels the heat pressing against his back. Sees the flickering shadows on the rubble cluttering the ground.

Another cough, this one wet with blood, just as the _pain_ sweeps through his body.

He releases a groan as his hand moves to assess the damage. It flinches away from his hip when white spots eat away at his vision.

“Son of a bitch…” He grunts; teeth grinding together reflexively. 

His eyes shift to the world around him; consumed by smoke and flames, destruction and carnage. He spots several bodies, all of which are most assuredly dead.

So why was _he_ still alive?

_‘Doesn’t matter. Take what you can get.’_

He huffs with disapproval, but manages to roll himself onto his stomach. His body ignites with defiance, but he’s done taking orders. Right now, his only focus is getting himself to safety.  
He drags his body forward, gasping loudly as the pain _rips_ the air from his lungs. He feels a shiver run along his spine as blood rolls from his chin.

He blinks away the haze of commands _demanding_ that he lay still, and drags himself further. 

A noise he’s never heard before tumbles over his lips, and for a moment, the world around him disappears. When it returns, it takes several more moments to focus properly.  
He rolls his eyes, muttering breathlessly, “What’s even...the point if I can’t...fucking move anywhere, _huh?”_

He doesn’t know who he’s talking to.

He doesn’t care.

Either way, he pulls his body forward again, and again, _and again,_ until he’s successfully hidden under the remnants of a building. The rubble of its innards tower on either side of him, hanging precariously over his head, but he pays no mind to any of it.

Falling onto his face, his eyelids sag as the pain grips his body tightly. He wheezes unevenly, every bone and muscle in his body screaming with agony. He flicks a glance at his gloved hand; several fingers poking free. He chuckles heavily as his eyes close.

Using what little strength he has left, he lifts the hand to his head. 

“Now… _where’s my fuckin’ hat?”_


	2. A Beginning

“...Oscar?”

_‘Oscar.’_

_‘Oscar. It’s time to wake up now.’_

_‘Oscar?’_

Air enters his lungs in a sharp, painful gasp.

Everything feels wrong. Foreign. Surreal.

Where was he? _Who_ was he?

Another gasp; sharper than the last. 

He coughs violently.

His memories return to him _powerfully._

Haven… _he was in Haven._ Not _‘home’_ Haven, but _‘school’_ Haven. For Huntsmen and Huntresses; both of which he was _not._

“Hey, kid, you alright?”

_‘Who--’_

A hand reflexively cuts through the air and slaps away the blurred object moving toward him. 

A fist? A _weapon?_ They were fighting, weren’t they? Against the enemies. Against Hazel and Lionheart and the two other individuals. 

_No._

No. _He_ wasn’t fighting.

 _ **Ozpin**_ was fighting.

The man in his head that was unusually silent in this moment.

So if Ozpin wasn’t here, then--

“Hey, calm down, would’ja?”

He blinks several more times. Scrubs the heel of his hand against his eyes and blinks some more. 

“...Qrow?”

The man stares back at him, standing tall with his arms crossed. He lifts a single brow, lips pursed in agitation. Oscar ponders why the man looks _particularly_ annoyed in this moment, but mutters a brief _‘oh’_ at the sudden realization.

Clearing his throat, he murmurs gently, “S-Sorry, I...I thought--”

Qrow’s sigh, loud and dejected, cuts him off. The Huntsman shakes his head, unfolding his arms.

“Don’t be. You alright?”

He reaches to the side of Oscar, who follows his every movement, his heart racing; blood and adrenaline still flowing in his veins. Upon recognizing that he was not, in fact, still in the academy fighting for his life (or rather, forcibly ‘taken control of’ so the ancient wizard in his head could fight _for him)_ and that Qrow was simply reaching for a glass of water on the bedside table, the boy breathed a sigh of relief. 

They were back in the safehouse. In his ‘room.’ 

_‘That’s right. We won...didn’t we?’_

“...Can you sit up?”

The voice of his current companion startles him; the boy forgetting he wasn’t alone. Qrow, on the other hand, scoffs with disapproval and a weak smile is all Oscar can muster by way of apology.

“Yeah...” he murmurs, pushing himself up and biting back the groan that builds at the back of his throat.

Would it always feel like this? Every bone and muscle aching to their core? _Moaning_ with an agony he wasn’t sure he could _ever_ describe?

The thought coils in his stomach, but he bites it down as he takes the glass of water extended out for him.

“Thanks,” he mutters, holding the glass tenderly. 

“Give yourself a couple of minutes to breathe,” Qrow replies, his arms folding back across his chest even as his voice softens. “Gotta be pretty sore from last night, huh?”

The boy grimaces, aiming a glare at the blanket draped over his legs. This, in turn, pulls a lighthearted laugh from the other. 

“Don’t worry. It only sucks the first couple of hundred times, then you get used to it.”

“What?!”

His head jerks up so quickly, the glass nearly topples free from his hands, but the man’s smirk replaces the fear with an immediate pout. He sighs heavily and aims his eyes back at his bed.

“...That’s not funny.”

“Give it a few more years.”

He rolls his eyes, pointer fingers tapping with an annoyance that he doesn’t even _try_ to hide. It’s not a new annoyance, by any means. Since meeting this man, the boy hasn’t decided whether to take him _too_ seriously or not serious at all. He was confusing and frustrating, comforting and fun. Ozpin claimed that the outward appearance, the gruff, agitated man that seemed ready to bite someone’s head off, was all a facade. That the softer side of him, the side that Oscar previously deemed _exclusive_ to his nieces, was, in fact, his real self.

He hadn’t believed it at first. In fact, he’d even _scoffed_ at the idea that Qrow would show him any compassion outside of being intoxicated, and, as much as he hated to admit it, he was wrong.

Qrow, although _always_ behaving like a stick was jammed up his ass, expressed both kindness and patience with him on a number of occasions.  
Before the battle of Haven, he offered to give him some private, one-on-one sparring lessons _‘should anything get ugly.’_  
It certainly hadn’t been anything to write home about, but the man _did_ offer him some tips and advice, and even ate dinner alongside him.

Deep down, Oscar couldn’t help wondering if it was all just a ruse. If the man was secretly hoping Ozpin would show himself and they could talk and pretend Oscar didn’t exist. Pretend-- _no._ **Acknowledge** that he was nothing more than the _body_ harboring the spirit of the man that everyone knew and loved.

Ozpin reassured him, countless amounts of times, that such a thing wasn’t true, but Oscar was no fool. He didn’t miss the way Qrow’s face lit up whenever Ozpin’s name came up, whenever the boy offered to allow them to speak. He didn’t-- _couldn’t_ miss the way that the spirit within longed for a discussion with an old friend. Yearned and grieved to be with a man from a life he lived no more than two years ago. 

A life he would never live again.

“Hey,” a hand falls over his shoulder, but this time, Oscar doesn’t react. Doesn’t so much as lift his head as the voice continues to speak.

“...You alright?”

_‘Are you asking me, or **him?’**_

The bitter, cold anger that washes over him in that moment twists violently in his chest. He swallows the growing lump in his throat as he replies, “Yeah…”

Qrow hesitates; his hand unsure whether to leave the boy or stay a little longer, but in the end, opts to pull away. 

“...Alright, kid. Just-- when you’re good and ready, we’ll be downstairs.”

_‘So?’_

Maybe it's the sound of his _dragging_ steps against the floorboards. 

The door that opens slow enough to _kill._

The same door that closes with a gentle _click._

Or perhaps, the sudden silence of the room, the silence _in his head_ that leaves the boy wondering:

_‘Who am I?’_


End file.
